Kastle Week
by silbecoo
Summary: A series of one shots based on prompts for Kastle Week on tumblr. Each prompt includes a kastlesque song and a one word prompt. I'm sorry it took so long for me to get them posted over here. Please feel free to let me know what you think.
1. Firsts

**Sun. May 8: Firsts / Jaymes Young – Dark Star**

* * *

 _If I told you where I've been_

 _Would you still call me baby?_

 _And if I told you everything_

 _Would you call me crazy?_

When the power went out Karen usually did what any logical person in her neighborhood would do. She battened down the hatches, made sure her gun was loaded and minded her own business until the grid was back up. Hell's Kitchen echoed with a symphony of sirens on nights like this, the blackout making scumbags a little more reckless, the shattering of glass not an uncommon sound. Tonight was different though. The darkness was accompanied by a strange sense of quiet, something that she could only attribute to the unseasonal chill of frost in the air.

The quiet drew her out of her fortified apartment, fingers trailing along the wall in the darkness as she followed the beam of her flashlight to the stairwell. She'd never been to the roof before. There was no pleasant view to draw her there, just rows upon rows of nearly crumbling buildings squished together in a depressing display of overpopulation. But something told her that tonight it would be worth it, that the darkness enveloping the city would hide the pain and suffering she saw every time she walked down the street.

She pushed open the rooftop door, the chill of the metal seeping through her blouse, a light breeze whooshing into the stairwell. It was dark, just as she'd suspected, but the telltale glow of the rest of the city over the horizon wasn't there either. It looked as though all of New York City was victim to a breakdown in the power infrastructure. A little thrill of fear shot through her, and she flicked off the flashlight lest anyone should notice her.

Her eyes adjusted, the bright white beams of the moon suddenly the only source of light, and she saw him, leaning against the low brick edge of the roof. He was staring at her, the glowing cherry of a cigarette moving slowly from his lips back down to rest at his side. "Nice night."

She smiled, setting the flashlight down and walking toward him. He snuffed out the cigarette, tucking the half smoked remainder into his pocket. He knew she didn't like the tendrils of smoke curling around her hair, seeping into the strands as they talked. Sitting down beside him, she looked up into the sky without thinking. A surprised little gasp escaped her. "Frank. Look."

There were stars, millions of them, swirling around in the night sky like glitter tossed into the sea. It had been so long since she'd seen them like this, the glowing street lamps and lit up skyscrapers blotting them out. They brought back memories from her childhood, nights spent star gazing with her brother. The last time she'd gazed up at the glowing night sky had been the night her brother had died. The constant ache in her chest, the one she lived with every day of her life, suddenly sharpened into an undeniable pang of sadness. "I forgot they looked like this. It makes you feel so small, like nothing you do really matters."

"You sound relieved." He looked at her quizzically,, dark eyes probing.

Karen tucked her trembling hands under her arms. Perhaps it was time to tell him. After all, she knew every little detail of his past, voluntarily given and otherwise. It didn't seem fair that he should remain in the dark, so to speak. "The last time I saw the stars… was right after…"

She felt his hand, brushing gently against her back. "I know."

"You know? How?" Her mouth fell open, regret etched on her face.

"I have my ways."

The tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. She couldn't move to wipe them away. Instead she looked back up at the night sky. "He was lying dead in the road, badly beaten, his face a barely recognizable bloody pulp. And the two men responsible were just standing there in my high beams, looking stunned that I'd showed up." She had to stop, afraid to utter the next part, afraid of what Frank would think. She took a deep breath, letting it out in a shaky gust. "They ran, and I saw red, slamming on the accelerator and not stopping until they were under the truck's wheels." She was crying for real, little soft hiccups catching in her throat with each pause.

The hand at her back stopped it's soft circles and for a split second Karen felt fear zip through her. She knew he would withdraw, leave her sobbing on the roof. She was a murderer after all, her rage that night pushing her past mere self-defense. She had become judge, jury and executioner in the space of five minutes, to three men she wasn't even sure were guilty. She hadn't even known who they were. But Frank doesn't move away. Instead, his hand moves up to her shoulders, pulling her into an embrace. "It's okay."

She closed her eyes, turning into him. The night air is freezing, but his arms were warm and she so desperately needed a place to lay her head. She continued talking, words muffled against his shirt. "I walked for hours in the woods, and the moon was barely a crescent in the dark sky. The stars were the only thing I had to guide my way. I next day I packed my bags and left. This is the first time I've told anyone."

He trailed the fingers of his free hand along her neck, tracing the line of her jaw until he came to her chin. Tipping her face up, he looked down into her eyes. Her breath shortened, anticipating a kiss, waiting breathlessly for the motion of his hand guiding her face to his. Instead he nudged her gaze upwards again. "They're the same stars, Karen. They're still beautiful."


	2. Flutter

**Mon. May 9: Flutter / Transviolet – Bloodstream**

* * *

There's nothing like the feeling of almost dying. Karen's hands tingle and her breaths come short. And Frank... Frank's looking at her like he's seeing a ghost. He falls to his knees in relief, leaning down to touch her, to see if she's real. And then he's holding her tight, cradling her to his chest as he carries her through the alleys and back to her apartment.

It's dark, but the streets are not devoid of movement, the occasional passerby giving him a funny look. He stares forward, jaw clenched, still holding tight. Nothing will stop him from getting her home, from getting her out of harm's way. He's told her, time and again, to stay away. Told her that nothing good could come of the way their souls reached out for one another. Nothing good at all.

And yet, here she is, quivering in his arms, pupils dilated with the chemicals that are pumping through her veins. It's just a little bit further, and then she'll be home, safe, tucked into her little bed. And Frank decides that he'll be gone. Gone for good. He'll leave New York. Hell, he'll leave the country if it means she'll stop putting herself in harm's way.

When they get to her door, he sets her down gently, bare feet whispering against the slick tiling. She'd fallen. Fallen fast and hard from the roof where she'd been taken. The only thing saving her, a miraculously placed dumpster full of empty cardboard boxes. He'd watched her fall, his heart in his throat, the rage already seeping into his body.

Picking her up again, ignoring the murmur of protest on her lips, he carries her into the apartment. He kicks the door shut behind him. The lights are all on, just as she'd left the place earlier, dashing out into the night to save him. And save him she did, distracting King Pin long enough for Frank to escape his bounds. But he hadn't been quick enough, watching in absolute horror as the gargantuan man picked Karen up by the waist, knocking the little gun from her hands, and threw her over the side of the building.

Frank pulled the trigger so many times he lost count, the clicks echoing into the night after the clip was empty. Wilson Fisk's face was a bloody unrecognizable mess, Frank looking down on it as his heart threatened to beat out of his chest. It took every ounce of strength he had in him to walk over to edge of the rooftop and look down into the street. And then he'd died the little death of relief when he saw movement in the dumpster.

Laying her down on her bed, he looks down at her, more fearful than ever. She's dazed, understandably so. Her eyes flicker across his face, hands reaching for him. He needs to leave. He tells himself he will, just as soon as he knows she's ok.

Her blouse is torn, buttons gone, somewhere in an alley along with her shoes. Gently he slips off the tattered garment, probing her alabaster skin for signs of injury. He feels her hands on him now, coolly tracing the lines of his face. Her fingertips slip down the vee of his shirt, pressing firmly against his sternum to mirror his own touch against her fluttering heart.

"Frank…"

His name is a whisper against her lips, the single word like a bulldozer knocking down the walls he keeps putting back up. It's a plea, the same plea he reluctantly released in the hospital. Please stay… He has no power against it, leaning his forehead down against hers, he slips into the bed next to her, holding his breath like he's afraid she's going to slip away if he dares breathe.

He doesn't expect her kisses, fluttering like angel's wings against his skin. Her hands trace the bruises along his ribs, slipping underneath his shirt. She's breaking him apart, piece by piece until he has no defenses left, his heart beating outside of his body. The blood flowing in her veins is like kryptonite, making him mortal once again. He holds her tighter. "I need you."

His voice sounds foreign, a need so bare it's primal. She smiles against his skin, nodding.

 _My pretty blue lips begging_

 _Take me, I need you in my bloodstream_

 _Hold me, break me_

 _My breath is for holding, overdose me_

 _I need you in my bloodstream_

 _Hold me, break me, break me_


	3. Dreams

**Tue. May 10: Dreams / Dark Times – The Weeknd ft. Ed Sheeran**

* * *

She can feel it, the little huff of hot air at her neck that lets her know he's there, in her bed. It's her favorite way to wake up, his arms tightening around her when she begins to stir. He likes to growl in her ear a gruff little, "Stay." It melts her insides and she's all his, pliant and warm in the early morning light.

He squints against the sunlight, grumbling in between kisses about the fact that she doesn't have blinds on her window. He's a night owl, creeping through the shadows and watching over the unaware city. Nine times out of ten she's already asleep when he lets himself into her apartment, carefully tucking the key into his jacket pocket and hanging the garment on the hook by her door before slipping into bed with her. No matter how quietly he pads across her apartment or how gently he lifts the covers, she always wakes up, her senses heightened because she'd been expecting him all along.

At night the love making is desperate, bodies colliding in the dark. He kisses her like a man dying of thirst who's just found the fountain of life, pinning her to the wall, the bed, the floor, any available surface until they're spent and panting in each other's arms. But in the morning the night is a distant memory, and the hopelessness of their situation seems far away.

This morning isn't any different. He cradles her, nuzzling against her warm skin with a day's worth of whiskers on his cheek. It tickles pleasantly and she smiles, dragging the tips of her fingers down his bare chest. There are scars there, but no fresh wounds, no disturbingly purple contusions. In fact, this morning he could be any man off the street, his face clear of any evidence of physical altercations. He's all smooth skin and a smattering of body hair and the occasional freckle. She can feel his eyelashes against her neck, fluttering as he closes his eyes. In five minutes he'll be snoring softly if she lets him. He really isn't a morning person.

She drops her nose to his hair. It's longer now, getting surprisingly fluffy with it's length. His military haircut had hidden the natural curl in it. She tucks away the information inside her little Frank-file, cherishing each little bit of him that she pries loose along the way. He smells like her shampoo, gardenias. She doesn't know why but that never ceases to amuse her, an unstoppable grin spreading across her face as she inhales him. Big bad Frank 'The Punisher' Castle smells like a bouquet of fancy flowers, and she's the only one who knows.

Her own eyes drift shut, forgetting about the nine o'clock meeting she has with Matt and Foggy. This always happens too. She has every intention of dragging Frank out of bed, pouring them both two giant cups of coffee and getting on with her day, and yet she always ends up twisted up in the sheets, snoring softly with Frank wrapped around her like a creeping vine. It's worth dashing into the office twenty minutes late, her hair a little mussed, a dreamy expression on her face.

Matt must notice the musical lilt in her voice, the lovelorn little sighs that escape her at the oddest moments, but he doesn't say anything. And Foggy, as difficult as it is for him to keep anything to himself, barely comments on the way she stares off into space with a secretive smile whenever people start talking about the city's latest vigilante. They all know, and she knows they know, but it hardly matters. Not after a morning like this.

She feels herself sinking into him, the warmth of their bodies melding together. The bright lights fade away, and she's floating alongside him, contentment seeping into her skin. The sounds of the city fade away, cars and far off sirens muffled until they no longer make a sound. All she can hear is Frank breathing against her skin and the beating of her own heart.

Then suddenly it's too quiet, too dark, and the warmth around her turns to into a vacuum that's sucking away everything that makes her happy. Something's pressing down on her chest, a deep sadness that will crush her if she doesn't get out from under it. Forcing herself to open her eyes, she can see that it's dark, for real this time, the light of a lone streetlamp stealing in through her window and casting alarming shadows over her bed.

And it's with a soul crushing certainty that she realizes… it was a dream. It's always a dream. Every sun drenched morning filled with kisses and soft embraces is a dream. He's never there when she wakes up, and the worried looks Matt and Foggy give her aren't because she looks woozy with happiness, but because she has circles under her eyes and a constant line of worry on her forehead.

She hasn't heard from Frank in weeks. She sinks down into the floor beside her bed, unable to make it more than a few steps before the sadness overwhelms her. She has these dreams every night, a cruel reminder of the things she wishes she could have, the things Frank would give her in a second if only he could put the pieces of his heart back together.

She's strong, always has been, but for some reason her brain manufactures these dreams just so reality can shatter her when she wakes up. It isn't fair, and the tears rolling down her cheeks are bitter. She wishes she could forget how soft his eyes are when he looks at her, how tenderly he holds her when she's sleeping, how hard it is to let him go. She'd give anything to forget, but her dreams won't let her.

 _This ain't the right time for you to fall in love with me_

 _My baby I'm just being honest_

 _And I know my lies can never make you believe_

 _Running in circles, that's why..._


	4. Alternate Universe

**Wed. May 11: Alternate Universes / Lord Huron – Meet Me in the Woods**

* * *

 _You do this and I am done! That's it! You're dead to me. Do you hear me?_

Karen stood shivering in the woods, the adrenaline from the accident still pumping through her veins, breath shuddering as she panted it out.

Karen thought she had him. She thought she saw his breath catch in his chest, the hesitation in his eyes for a split second. But he just shook off her, shook off the humanity that she made him feel in spite of everything he did to push it away. He had to finish what he'd started. It didn't matter what she said. Frank paused in the entryway to the cabin, a pained expression flickering across his face before he wiped it away entirely. "I'm already dead."

He said it so calmly, his voice carrying through the air in that quiet register she's grown so used to. In a way he was right. Karen had thought he was dead for the better part of a day, her throat closing up, tears threatening whenever she thought about the bodies from the boat. But here he was, alive, staring down at her with an unreadable expression.

She turned away, limping back through the dark forest, damp leaves clinging to her shoes. With every step, every second that passed, the tension ramped up, waiting for the thunderous crack of gunfire to echo through the woods. When it finally came, it was like a rubber band inside of her snapped, her breath releasing in a strangled sob.

She'd known Colonel Schoonover was going to kill her the moment he told her to pull over, and her mind had raced, picking up and discarding a dozen possible escape scenarios in the space of a few seconds. More than half of them involved her wrestling the gun away from the man and putting a couple bullets in him. She was nothing if not a survivor. And yet here she was, being ripped apart at the very idea of Frank turning back down this murderous path.

Maybe they were both dead already, both sinners in the hands of an angry God. What exactly did she want Frank to do? Schoonover deserved to die, if not for the horrible things he'd already done then at least for intending to kill her. And even if he hadn't done those things, there was no way he would leave either of them to tell the tale of his nefarious activity if they let him go. But she still wished that praying worked, that somehow the universe would stop heaping these decisions upon Frank, upon her.

She knelt in front of her car, the high beams making the tears running down her face glow, the chill of the road seeping into her scraped knees.. She heard Frank before she saw him, his own boots dragging through the piles of dead leaves, then scraping against the pavement behind her. When he stopped behind her she didn't look up, just stared dazedly into the bright headlights. She heard his footsteps change direction as he turned toward the truck, the heavy sound of a something being thrown into the vehicle's bed. .

She sighed, resigned to the fact that she had completely lost him, that the spark of humanity she'd been trying fervently to fan back to life had finally been smothered into oblivion. He was going to leave her, injured and stranded in the middle of the woods. She closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to watch the truck's tail lights disappear into the darkness.

But the engine never started, and briefly she thought she might be losing consciousness, her head injury more serious than she thought. But the feel of a hand, dropping lightly on her shoulder brought her back to reality with a surprised little gasp. He slipped his hands under her arms, lifting her to her feet like she was a child who'd fallen and hurt herself.

And much in the same way he probed her for injuries, wincing slightly as he peered at the blood running down her forehead. He stopped, dropping his hands to his side, staring at her with his jaw clenched tightly. She thought he was going to turn and walk back to the truck, silently expecting her to follow him, but then something totally unexpected happened.

His face crumpled, grief coursing through him in an unexpected flood. Reaching out, he captured her in a fierce embrace. Softly, as always, he mumbled a half apology in her ear. "I never wanted to put you in danger. I _am_ a monster, Karen. I told you to stay away."

She tried to shake her head in denial, but her movement was limited in his tight embrace. She resorted to whispering no softly in his ear, her own arms raising up to hold him to her, to deny what he was saying. "Frank, I was wrong. You're not dead. We're not dead."

He buried his face in the hollow of her neck. " _You're_ not dead. I'm a ghost in the woods."

She felt him pulling away and did her best to strengthen her own embrace, but he easily extricated himself, slipping her cellphone from the pocket of her jacket. He pressed the device into the palm of her hand. "Call the police, tell them some lunatic rammed your car. Get out of here and never look back. _I mean it., Karen_ "

He turned, going back to his truck for real this time. The door slamming echoed ominously, and Karen wanted to throw up when he started the engine. She had lost him, the glowing red of his tail lights turning into twin blurs as her eyes filled with angry tears. Her nostrils flared in frustration, lungs filling up with a scream. "I'm in the woods too, Frank!"

She tossed the phone to the pavement, angrily turning back in the direction of Schoonover's shed. She could still remember the feel of cool metal under her fingers as she squeezed the trigger of a handgun, the deafening sound of gunfire ringing out. For the first time the memory didn't sicken her, it bolstered her.

The shed was dimly lit, the metallic tang of freshly shed blood still hanging in the air. She ignored the stickly pool of it by the doorway, stepping daintily over the mess and focusing on the weapons cabinet sitting wide open. She grabbed a gun, tucking it into the waist of her skirt, filling the pockets of her coat with ammo.

Marching back out into the darkness, determination filled her. She would use her investigative skills and track Frank down. They were going to figure out everything, and they were going to do it together. Screw getting the cops involved, screw lawyers, screw writing pointless articles that no one read. If the only thing people would listen to was a hail of bullets, then that's what she was going to use. She'd been fighting against the weight of a gun in her hand for too long.

 _I took a little journey to the unknown,_

 _And I come back changed. I can feel it in my bones._

 _I fucked with forces that our eyes can't see._

 _Now the darkness got a hold on me._

 _Oh, the darkness got a hold on me._


	5. Storm

**Thurs. May 12: Storm / Zayn Malik – Rear View**

* * *

 _Heard about all the things you've done_

 _And all the wars that you've been in_

 _Heard about all the love you lost_

 _It was over before it began_

Frant grunts in pain as he sloshes through the water standing in the street. He can hear the rushing roar of the sewers as they take in the downpour. He's never seen the city like this, buckling under the force of a hurricane, not a soul other than him out on the waterlogged streets. He can barely even see ten feet in front of him as he trudges along, great sheets of water blowing him sideways, the force of the wind shifting parked vehicles out into the middle of the road. It's just his luck that he's stranded out in this mess, his right flank pierced by a bullet and aching like the dickens.

There is possible refuge from the storm all around him, dry apartments full of people hunkered down with their windows shut tight, but he can't just go knocking on doors. His face is too familiar, his deeds too well publicized not to inspire fear in anyone he meets. He needs to staunch the flow of blood dripping down his side, ,to stitch up the ragged holes before things really start to go south. He just needs a dry place, damn it.

He wipes the water from his eyes angrily, leaning heavily against a light post to catch his breath. When he looks up, he nearly laughs with relief at the building facade in front of him. He doesn't know how he made it this far, at least ten blocks from the flooded subway that he climbed out of. But he is here, looking at the apartment building of the one person in the city who might not turn him away.

He doesn't even know if she still lives here. It's been two years since he's seen her, since he made the decision that being part of her life wasn't good for her. He can still hear the way she'd called out his name as he'd walked away, full of desperation and disappointment. Maybe it would be better for him to drown out here like some kind of stray caught in a storm, at least he wouldn't have to say goodbye a second time.

He pushes away from the light post, pressing down against the bullet wound with one hand, hoping he hasn't already lost too much blood. The last thing he wants is to leave Karen with a dead body to deal with. The name plate beside the buzzer still says 'K. Page,' but when he presses down nothing happens. It doesn't matter. He's pretty sure the doors to the lobby don't lock properly, at least they didn't two years ago. The thing swings open with little provocation. He frowns. If he survives the night, he's going to corner her super in some dark alley and scare the man into fixing the doors.

He trudges up the stairs, lungs burning by the time he reaches the fifth floor. The lights in the hallway flicker occasionally, the power threatening to go out. It's only a matter of time. The storm is still raging outside, and he's grateful for the loud noise. It covers the harsh sound of his breathing, the thump of his army boots as he drags himself along. The edges of his vision are going blurry, the few lights in the hall turning into little starbursts.

When he knocks on her door, it's completely up to the universe whether or not he'll survive the night. If anyone other than a shocked blonde woman answers he's as good as dead. He stares at the peeling paint while he waits, the numbers on her door appearing in double before merging back together. When it swings open, he's never been more pleased to see such an angry expression.

It's all he can do to take two steps across the threshold. The world goes black, and the last thing he remembers is the feel of Karen trying to catch him before he slides down into her floor.

Karen springs into action, heart beating wildly as she shuts and locks the door behind her. Frank is pale, paler than she's ever seen anyone, his entire left side soaked in blood. The bright red stain gives her pause, and she drops to her knees to check his pulse. It thrums faintly against her fingers and she lets out a little sigh of relief.

Struggling to lift the weight of his shoulders, she finally manages to get off his jacket. Snatching a pair of scissors of her desk, she makes short work of his shirt, cutting it right off of him. A pained little cry escapes her when she sees the wound. "Oh Frank." She tells herself that it looks worse than it is, that the fact that he's bleeding from two different sides means there's no bullet lodged in his flesh, that it's possible the projectile missed his vital organs.

She's not new to this, and there's a giant bottle of isopropyl alcohol and a brand new pack of suture needles in her medicine cabinet. The curved metal of the needles glints as she kneels down beside frank. Her hands are shaky, and he's going to be left with two fairly ugly scars if he survives, but it's the best she can do under the circumstances. He's so cold to the touch, soaked to the bone from the storm.

HIs eyes flicker open just as she ties off the last suture, his hand lying on the floor weakly raising toward her. Perhaps it was shock rather than blood loss that sent him careening into her apartment unconscious. She hopes against hope that is was. There's nothing she can do if he's lost too much blood.

She can't help herself, reaching down to thread her fingers through his, briefly touching her forehead against his. "Frank, you're going to be okay." He responds with a gentle little squeeze, his fingers chilly against her own. "Shit. We need to get you warm."

And then she's up and at it again, tugging off his boots and drenched socks. Methodically unbuttoning his his jeans and trying like hell to drag them off. She hears him laugh, the sound gritty and soft at the same time. "Ma'am, if you keep trying to get me naked, we're both going to be a little warmer than you intended."

She blushes at this, pushing away her embarrassment to let the realization that he seems to be doing fine settle over her. "Can you get up?"

He nods weakly, bracing himself with one arm and moving to a seated position. She reaches down and helps him the rest of the way up. He's not as okay as he's pretending, unsteady on his feet once he stands. He leans heavily into her, and she holds on tight as they shuffle to her bathroom, fingers slipping against his wet skin.

He sits on the edge of her bathtub, letting her drape towels over him. She pats away the moisture, running the terry cloth over his hair repeatedly until the drops of water are all absorbed. He'd thought he would never feel warm again, but the way her hands flutter across him makes him think he could never possibly have been cold.

Her movements are still a bit frenetic, and he can feel the slight tremor in her touch, hear the little wobble in her voice like she's on the edge of having a panic attack. He catches her wrist, pulling it away from him. He wants to calm her down. "I'll be alright, I promise."

His words don't have the intended effect. Her face crumples and a strangled sob escapes her. She lunges to him, arms wrapping around his neck tightly. "Oh, God, Frank. I thought you were dead!"

Reflexively he wraps his arms around her, softly shushing her sobs. He _is_ in shock, and not just from the bullet that had torn through him. He hadn't realized there was anyone left in the world that cared whether he lived or died. "I'm not dead. I'm right here, shh."

She squeezes him harder, refusing to let go. He has to stop doing this to her. It's ridiculous for it to have even happened once, but this is the second time that she's been faced with the possibility of him being dead. She cares too much. Frank feels guilty, and he knows he should pull away, should say something gruff and mean to push her to the side... for her own good, but he can't. He just hugs her back and waits for her little sobs to subside, drawing comforting circles on her back while she cries.

When she finally pulls back, it's too look at him with glistening eyes, a tentative smile pulling at her tearstained cheeks. She runs her hands through his damp hair, patting it back into place. She sniffs away the last of the desperate emotion swirling inside of her. Clearing her throat, she says, "You need a haircut."

There's relief in her posture, in her eyes. He can't take that away from her, instead he just nods, feeling a matching smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He wants to kiss her, to slip into an alternate universe where he's allowed to feel something for someone else again. It would be so easy. He pushes down the urge, letting her step away from him. "Well maybe you could give me one, that is, if you're any better with clippers than a suture needle."

She smiles at him. "Frank, there are about a million things I'm better at than sewing people up, but I'll always be here to give you crooked stitches. Don't ever forget that."

He watches her rummage through her cabinets, looking for her clippers. He aches to live in a different world, but knows this is the most he's allowed to have.

 _Heard about all the miles you've gone_

 _Just to start again_

 _Heard about all that you've been through_

 _It sounds like you need a friend, a friend_


	6. Burn

**Fri. May 13: Burn / BANKS – You Should Know Where I'm Coming From**

* * *

Karen couldn't believe what she was seeing. The flames engulfing Frank's house were licking at the structure's frame like they had a life force all their own, a destructive energy intent on obliterating everything they touched.

She was too late. This was a signal, his way of telling the world, telling her, that Frank Castle, loving father and loyal husband was gone for good, nothing but the ashes of his former life would be left after tonight.

Karen watched as the fire trucks silently made their way to the end of the street, a noticeable lack of urgency among the firefighters. They slowly unwound the hose and attached it to the hydrant on the corner. Rage boiled through her unexpectedly. They knew this was Frank Castle's home and they relished the idea of it burning to the ground.

Whipping out her tiny notebook she stomped over to the closest man, the fire reflecting ominously in her eyes. She didn''t even have to yell to be heard, the whole event strangely quiet, only crackle of the fire in the air. "So, what shall I tell the city about the length of time it takes to put out a run of the mill house fire?"

The man ignored her, lifting the slack in the hose over his shoulder and trudging toward the front of the house. Just as she was about to give up and drive away, he called out over his shoulder. "Ain't nothin' run of the mill about arson, lady! Put that in your rag!"

It's what she suspected, but she didn't want to believe it. Everything she knew about Frank had in some way come from that house. The first smile she'd ever seen on Frank's face had come from talking about things that had happened here. Karen felt her heart break a little more. That was happening a lot lately, her heart breaking in little bits, a piece here a piece there, but this seemed worse some how. It was a loss she couldn't articulate, wouldn't even try.

Turning away from the blaze she went and sat on the curb, her head dropping down into her hands. She felt like she'd failed him, tears falling silently down on her knees.

"Ma'am?"

Something brushed her shoulder, and she snapped her head up, half expecting to find Frank staring down at her, his familiar greeting still hanging in the air. It wasn't him, of course, but a young firefighter looking at her with an unsure expression. She swallowed, trying to stifle her disappointment. "Yes?"

The young man nervously held a hand out to her. "There was a man who stopped by a few minutes ago. He insisted that I give you this."

She reached out, her heart in her throat. It had to have been Frank. Who else could have set this man to shaking in his boots, a streak of sweat across his forehead unrelated to the heat of the fire. Karen reaches out to take the item.

The metal was cool against her palm. Twin dog tags both clearly stamped with 'FRANCIS CASTLE' laid cool in her hand. She clutched at them desperately, feeling suddenly protective. If this was all Frank had kept from his former life then she would guard it fiercely, hoping against hope that there would come a day when he wanted to reclaim it.

She could still hear the crackling of the fire as she walked away, the chain draped around her neck absorbing the warmth of her skin, tags resting against her chest. With each beat of her heart the tags trembled almost imperceptibly.

 _You ought to know where I'm coming from_

 _How I was alone when I burnt my home_

 _And all of the pieces were torn and thrown_

 _You should know where I'm coming from_


	7. Lasts

**Sat. May 14: Lasts / Hozier – It Will Come Back To Me**

* * *

The last time he sees her she looks tiny, staring up at him from the sidewalk, bathed in the blue lights of police cars. The wind whips at his jacket and he knows he's making a dramatic picture. He deepens the gruff expression on his face, trying to make a dramatic final exit. He can't explain the hesitation in his posture, the brief moment he pauses to memorize her face because he knows it's the last time… except it's not.

Two weeks later she appears in the sights of his rifle, arms crossed, deep frown pulling at the corners of her mouth. He has no idea what she's doing sneaking around the docks at midnight, but he suspects it has something to do with her job at the newspaper. He can see the outline of the.308 under her jacket. The corner of his mouth twitches, fighting against the urge to grin. Her stealth is impressive, and he fights the urge swoop down and throw her over his shoulder and haul her back home.

She notices the shuffle of feet before him, ducking down behind a couple of barrels as the men saunter by. It's a close call, his finger tensing next to the trigger, but the group doesn't notice her. He watches as she emerges from her hiding place, getting the hell out of dodge before anyone notices. She looks up at the rooftop he's watching from, and for a split second he thinks she's made him, but she looks away, feet silently padding against the wood as she runs away.

She needs him like she needs another hole in the head, clearly able to take care of herself without his interference. He tells himself it's the last time he'll stick his nose in her business… but it's not.

Three days later an undeniable craving for freshly brewed coffee draws him out of his hiding hole earlier than usual. He's usually a night owl. The city's filth aren't exactly a bunch of morning people usually, and he does his best work in the dead of night. But here he is, standing in line

It's cold out, a great excuse to pull a beanie down over his head, a bulky coat with the hood pulled up over his head. He looks like the typical New Yorker in a cold snap, and not like a wanted man trying to hide. He thinks maybe there's something familiar about the person standing in front of him, but she's got a bright pink toboggan hiding her blonde locks and a bulky peacoat hiding her graceful figure.

She grabs her coffee from the hands of the street vendor, closing her eyes to inhale the steam as she turns around. His heart stops at the expression of bliss on her face. He knows he should turn and leave before she notices him, but he's frozen to the stop. She nearly runs into him before opening her eyes, her mouth falling open at the sight of him. He can't figure out what the hell he's feeling. When she reaches toward him, her mouth already forming the first syllable of his name, the urge to step toward her wars with the need to get as far away as possible.

He turns, coffeeless, and disappears into the crowd, telling himself that if he never sees her again then one day the image of her flushed cheeks and dreamy expression will begin to fade. It _will_ fade, damn it. It's the last time he's going to see her… except it isn't.

In the spring, he decides to get out of the city for a bit, spend some time in the Adirondacks tracking a suspected serial killer. Once Frank finds the mountain man's bunker in the hills, he puts half a dozen bullets in the shitbag's chest. He can't explain it, but killing someone so completely full to the brim with evil satisfies something inside of him. The constant need for vengeance wanes some after a kill like this, and he decides to stay a few days longer.

He's sitting on the side of a stream, waiting for his shirt to dry in the branches of a nearby tree while he cleans his gun, uncharacteristically lost in thought. The bubbling stream and the rote motions sort of hypnotize him, and he doesn't hear the twigs snap behind him. It's the sound of someone gasping his name that finally puts him back on alert.

He snaps the gun together and turns on her, immediately lowering the barrel when he sees who it is. She's dressed for hiking, heavy boots, and jeans that hug her body. She's out of breath, the climb too much for her lack of physical conditioning, overheated in her soft layers of clothing. He doesn't even bother asking why she's here, the bunker of the serial killer mere yards away from the stream.

A little wrinkle appears between her eyes, the gears clearly turning in her mind. "You?"

"Try again." He snorts, raising one eyebrow. He can see her gaze sweeping over him, taking in his state of undress. She's doing everything in her power not to let her gaze follow narrow trail of hair disappearing beneath his belt. Suddenly he feels a little warm himself.

She clears her throat, looking away. "You killed him?"

He nods, setting his rifle against the tree. The fabric of his shirt is warm with sunshine as he drags it back over his head. It's better for everyone if there are no distractions. "Sorry to take the legs out of your story, Page."

She shrugs. "I actually don't mind… in this case. That man- I might have been tempted to do it myself."

He can tell from the tone of her voice that she isn't exaggerating, and that she really is grateful he took the decision out of her hands. He's starting to realize they're more alike than he ever imagined, a certain strength hiding beneath her graceful exterior, a need for retribution that matches his own. For the first time he thinks that it might not be necessary to cut every single person out of his life.

He grabs the fishing pole lying on bank, gesturing with it toward the stream. "You ever been fishing?"

She nods tentatively. "It's been a really long time."

Wordlessly he hands her the pole. Fishing is a quiet pastime, but it's comfortable, sitting on the rocks beside her, watching the sun slowly dip down over the horizon. It's getting late, and neither of them have had a single nibble. His tent his hidden just behind a thicket of bushes, and he doesn't know exactly what he's supposed to say. One last time he faces the urge to walk away from her, but this time he overpowers it. "It's getting dark."

"It is."

"We should probably bed down so we can hike out early in the morning."

"We should."

"We should."

 _You know better babe, you know better babe,_

 _Than to smile at me, smile at me like that_

 _You know better babe, you know better babe!_

 _Than to hold me just, hold me just like that._


End file.
